


va te faire foutre

by charlesleeray



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Gift Giving, Gifts, M/M, Packages, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24782422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesleeray/pseuds/charlesleeray
Summary: Tumblr Prompt: I’ve been receiving all your freaking mail since you moved out and you keep getting weird gifts from your brother make it stop.
Relationships: Cecil Terwilliger/Mr. Bergstrom
Kudos: 3





	va te faire foutre

**Author's Note:**

> I love them. Also I didn’t beta-read this, my head hurts.

The first package addressed to Cecil Terwilliger was what looked like a remote control flying fish. Granted, Bergstrom wasn’t going to open the package, but curiosity had gotten the better of him— and this Cecil didn’t live here anymore anyways, so there really was no harm, was there?  
He had moved into the desolate town of Springfield a while ago, re-claiming his place of elementary school teacher and finding a suitable place to live. The one-story, tan colored house was perfect for his teacher salary, so he scooped it up. He had only met the previous owner once, and even this was only a fleeting hello— yet something about him had taken Bergstrom by surprise. A past student, perhaps? He looked extremely familiar.  
He had brought out his all-purpose knife and opened the package quite tiredly, as it was well past 8pm when the package had come.  
“And what are you doing, ordering a remote control flying fish?” He pulled the box out, studying it before dropping it back into the cardboard again. Bergstrom flipped over the top flap to see who had sent it.  
The name read in bold Robert Terwilliger. He squinted his eyes— that last name felt so, incredibly familiar.  
“I’d bet one of them went to Yale with me... their names sound a bit pretentious, don’t they?”  
He set the package near his door, just in case, and got ready for bed. 

The second package for Cecil Terwilliger was a rubber chicken purse. Bergstrom had just gotten home from work, a bit surprised that there was a package at his door. Like with the last one, he plopped it on the kitchen table and opened it.  
He slammed both hands on the table and hung his head in confusion. “What in Heaven is that?!”  
The rubber chicken purse stared up at him in gleeful joy. It made him sick, and he picked it up and cradled it in his arms.  
“Is this some kind of sick joke? He should know that you don’t live here anymore, shouldn’t he? Be he a brother, a father, even a cousin.” Bergstrom took the chicken’s beak in his hand and started to talk in a high-pitched voice. “Of course he should! Maybe you should pack up all these gifts and give ‘em to their rightful owner! Ba-bawk!”  
He tilted the chicken’s face to his and dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “You think so, Mr. Chicken?”  
“I know so, ba-bawk!”  
He stared into its rubber eyes before realizing he was talking and being the voice of a rubber chicken purse.  
“I’ve stooped lower.” Then, before placing him back in the box, he exclaimed, “Isn’t that right, Mr. Chicken?”  
Mr. Chicken didn’t respond, and Bergstrom threw him back into the cardboard box.

The third package wasn’t even a package— it was a tightly sealed envelope addressed to Cecil Terwilliger. This one came about a week later, when Bergstrom was celebrating the lack of packages at his door.  
“Another one?” He threw his jacket over a kitchen chair and took a seat, struggling to open the envelope.  
“This better be an apology letter. Or apology money. Heh. Apology money.” He reached for a spare kitchen knife and stabbed it open enough to were he could get a good grip on the underside of the flap. One pull, and it opened.  
He sat there in silence. About a minute passed before his eyes shot open.  
The envelope had coated him and his surroundings in shiny, translucent glitter. Standing up, Bergstrom shook it some of it off, in awe that one envelope could hold so much hate.  
“There’s— oh, god—“  
He coughed and a million little pieces of glitter flew out. He ran his hands through his hair and hurried to the sink, where the littlest slivers of glitter fell out of his hair.  
He threw the rest of the envelope into the trash, swiping all of the loose glitter into a dustpan. 

“Mr. Bergstrom, why do you have glitter in your hair?”  
It was close to the end of school day, and almost every second grader— including some of the fourth graders— had pointed out how he sparkled in the sunlight.  
“Arts and Crafts problem.”  
The one who had asked the question was Lisa Simpson, who had almost puked in excitement when she found out he was staying for good. He didn’t mind it when she stayed after class, but that meant he had to stay, too, and the multitude of glitter was making him uncomfortable.  
Before Lisa could comment on how weary he looked, the door burst open.  
“LISA! IWENTINTOTHEMUSICROOMAND—“  
“Jeez, Bart, could’ya slow down a bit?”  
“SIDESHOW BOB!”  
“Sideshow Bob?!”  
Bergstrom shot up in his chair, looking side to side. “I’m sorry, what?”  
“Mr. Bergstrom! Bart’s got a enemy and he’s been trying to kill him for years—“  
“He’s been trying to kill a fourth grader for years?”  
Bart screamed as the door opened, and both of the kids hid behind Bergstrom’s desk. Great, he thought. I have to deal with a murderer now.  
When the supposed enemy of Bart Simpson walked in, a light clicked in Bergstrom’s brain that hadn’t been on before.  
“Are you Robert Terwilliger?”  
Robert raised his eyebrows quizzically. “I just so happen to be. Bergstrom?”  
A smug smile appeared on his face.  
“I haven’t seen you in, what, years? I totally forgot you even went by Sideshow Bob.”  
“Yes, that was...” he sighed, looking around. “A sort of title for me at the time. But now is not the time to chat.”  
“I believe it is, Robert!” He snapped his fingers. “You’re Cecil’s brother! He told me about you!”  
“Cecil?”  
“That’s why the previous owner of my house didn’t care to talk to me!”  
“House— did you move into his house?”  
He nodded, crossing his arms. “God, I pushed all of those memories out of my head when I left... how is he, by the way?”  
Robert ignored the question. “So, all those gifts I’ve been sending him...”  
Bergsrtom pointed to the glitter in his hair. “Correctamundo!”  
“You opened them, even when they were clearly not addressed to you?”  
“I’m a teacher, Robert. I’m curious by nature.”  
He put his hands in his lap, leaning forward. “What brings you to an elementary school?”  
“Business that does not include you.”  
“Right. Well, I don’t allow adults in my classroom after the final bell has rung, so... vamos?” Bergstrom shooed him away with his hand.  
“Well, wait— hold on a minute. Give me that pen of yours.”  
He handed him a black pen, and Robert grabbed his hand and wrote something on it. “I’m doing this for you, not for my brother.”  
“I’ll keep that in mind.”  
“Farewell, Bergstrom.”  
Robert slipped the pen into his pocket and walked out, closing the door with some force.  
“My pen,” Bergstrom weakly exclaimed.

A few days later he stood at Cecil’s doorstep, mystery box in hand. Robert has given him Cecil’s new address, and he was determined to reignite the spark that was between them before he left.  
He knocked on the door, anxiously tapping on the box.  
“Who is it?”  
“Bergstrom.”  
He could hear Cecil hesitate to open the door, but was relieved when he saw it swing open.  
“What do you want? And why are you back?”  
“Well, I got a job here. A permanent job. Robert gave me your new address. Uh. Thanks for the house.”  
Even though the tension had become thick, his heart jumped to see Cecil smugly smile. “Oh, you’re welcome for the house. Did you ask Robert for my address?”  
“No.”  
“That bastard. What’s in that package?”  
“Robert’s been sending you these weird gifts, but they’ve all come to my house. I figured I would hand-deliver them to you.”  
“Weird... how?” He eyed the box.  
“Do you see the glitter in my hair?”  
Cecil looked him up and down and laughed loudly. “When did he send that?”  
“Two days ago.”  
“Well, thank you for taking the hit. Uh. Would you like to come in?”  
“If you want me to.”  
He ushered Bergstrom in, closing the door behind him. The house was bare, filled to the brim with cardboard boxes. There was a coffee table and a couch in the middle, complete with blankets and a pillow.  
“This looks like my apartment in Minnesota.”  
“You went to Minnesota?”  
“Briefly.” He sat the box onto the table, sitting down with Cecil. “You know, I never really got the chance to say sorry.”  
“Sorry for what?”  
“Upping and leaving.”  
“Hey. You don’t have to apologize... it was your work, wasn’t it? I just had overacted. Robert talked me through it.”  
“He did?”  
“Reluctantly. Now, what’s inside this box?”  
It took them a while to peel back the cardboard, and Cecil had chastised him for leaving a bit of cardboard on the floor. When they did open it, Bergstrom reached inside and fished out a potato. On it were the words va te faire foutre.  
“Oh my god.” Cecil turned it over in his hands.  
“What does it say?”  
“It’s French.”  
“For?”  
“Kiss my ass.”  
They both dissolved into a fit of laughter, and Bergstrom had leaned against Cecil for stability.  
“What’re you gonna do with it?”  
“Mm. Do you fancy dinner, Bergstrom?”  
“Indeed I do, Cecil.”

They both slept on the couch that night.


End file.
